I've got a secret sickness. It makes me radioactive. You can't see it or smell it or feel it, but it will infect you if you get too close to me. You won't even know what it is. The easiest explanation would be, well, insanity, but that's not true. I'm perfectly sane, and everything I do is according to the utmost logic. It's just that you don't know the secret. My life is a lie. A big fat ugly lie. Well, there are parts of it that add up to a big fat ugly lie, anyway. A lot of it is good, but there is that secret part, like cancer, that isn't visible. Not until it's terminal and time is measured in days or hours or breaths. It's not terminal yet, but there are symptoms... but that's whats so great about the secret sickness. The symptoms are kind of befuddling to the casual observer, easily explained away. It's easy to read about the secret sickness, and sympathize, and say, 'Oh, ok, yeah, I understand, if I were involved I would be compassionate'. But it's not that way. It's more like, 'What the fuck is wrong with you? It's your fault, you're wrong, you you you, it's all you, you did it. You didn't get infected with the secret sickness, you went out and searched for it, so you're guilty. I hate you for it.'